Keepsake
by MollyMayhem84
Summary: Daryl found it ironic that the most unlikely survivor in this hellish world might just be the one who saves him. Terrible summary. Sort of AU/Crossover. M for Daryl potty-mouth.
1. Chapter 1: Gone

_And in my heart, there are these waters,_

_Where I put you down to lay while I learn to live with it,_

_Until I'm free..._

Chapter 1: Gone.

Daryl Dixon's had lungs finally had enough. He had run for miles, long after the sight of the car had vanished. He knew he couldn't track a car, but he kept running, hoping against hope that maybe the car had broke down, or that maybe she had escaped and was waiting for him to find or her...or maybe...

_No_, he told himself forcefully, as he sunk to the ground, tossing his crossbow and meager garbage bag of belongings aside. His chest was constricted painfully as he willed his stressed lungs to absorb oxygen. He wiped fiercely at the burning in his eyes and laid back against the cool grass beside the weathered asphalt. His loss was starting to sink in, weighing heavily on his chest.

Beth was gone.

The prison was gone.

Rick, gone.

Hershel, gone.

Glenn.

Maggie.

Gone.

He was alone.

A scream pierced the air and Daryl jerked upright. He climbed to his feet and grabbed his bow and the bag, straining to decipher where the noise was coming from. He was certain it was through the woods behind him and he tore off. Maybe Beth had gotten free after all. He shielded his eyes with his arm from the branches, as he barrelled noisily through the brush. Any grace and stealthiness he had in the woods was long abandoned. His cheeks and hands stung from the superficial scratches that the sharp twigs left behind on his skin.

He could smell the decay long before he crashed into the clearing, but before he could react, the toe of his boot snagged an exposed root and sent him tumbling hard to the forest floor. He rolled onto his back and took stock of the threat ahead. There were about a dozen walkers, maybe less, gathering around something he couldn't see through the mass of rotted bodies. He sent a bolt into the forehead of the first walker that he had distracted from its original target. Two others were limping quickly towards him and he tossed his crossbow aside and pulled out the hunting knife clipped to his belt. He raised his right leg and shoved the closest walker backward with his boot, sending it tumbling into its follower with a groan.

Daryl rolled away and sprung to his feet, plunging the blade deep into the rotten skull of the undead man as it clumsily climbed to its feet. Daryl repeated the vicious action with the next walker, and the next. After clearing out enough space around him, he quickly retrieved his abandoned Stryker and loaded it. The bolt whistled through the air before sinking into a particularly rotten female's temple.

Three more to go. He stepped heavily on the forehead of a downed walker and pulled out his bolt with a disgusting slurp and loaded it into his crossbow.

The remaining three were crouched down reaching into what looked like a foxhole, seemingly unaware that Daryl had massacred the rest of their small horde.

He swung his crossbow heavily at the head of the closest one. It had been dead awhile as its skull split open easily and it slumped, finally dead, to the ground. He used his knife to put the remaining two down and stopped to catch his breath and examined the burrow that had the walkers' attention. The long grass that disguised the opening had been flattened and he knelt down to get a closer look.

The opening was small. Even Beth's tiny frame would have trouble wedging itself through. Daryl's disappointment was palpable. He had heard a very human scream, he was sure of it. He mentally cursed himself for his recklessness in chasing a goddamned ghost. Just as he was about to turn around, a feminine whimper sounded from inside the burrow and he felt his hope renew.

"Beth?" He croaked. His throat was parched from his run and battle with the walkers. When no reply sounded back, Daryl plunged his arm up to the shoulder into the foxhole's entrance, groping blindly until his hand hit a warm target. He heard its startled cry and quickly wrapped his hand around what he could only guess was an arm and pulled.

The burrow's occupant thrashed wildly against his grip and he used his free hand to brace himself as he heaved it forward.

"Beth!" Daryl grunted, as he strained to wrestle her out. "It's me!"

The figure stilled and before Daryl could pull her out of the burrow, a small voice called.

"Who's Beth?"

Daryl released his grip and pulled his arm back with such a force that it sent him reeling backwards onto the rotted corpse behind him. He righted himself quickly and tried not to think too much on the putrid slime covering the back of his vest.

he eyed the opening of the foxhole warily, his hand reaching for his hunting knife instinctually, only to find the leather sheath empty. He cursed under his breath and searched the ground around him desperately.

He finally spotted the black gore covered blade near the opening of the burrow. In his haste to find what he now knew was not Beth inside, he had been careless and dropped it. He lurched forward and grabbed it, turning the handle in his hand.

"Come on out, now. Ya hear?" Daryl called gruffly.

No response came from the hole.

"Ain't gonna hurt ya," he tried again, willing his voice to sound soothing and reassuring.

"I-I'm armed!" A voice responded shakily.

The voice was decidedly female, and if the idea wasn't so ridiculous, Daryl would have guessed it belonged to a child. A full grown man trying to survive in this world alone was a stretch, let alone a kid.

Daryl fought back a bemused smirk. "Expect as much. Listen, I ain't got all day. If you wanna stay in there, fine."

He turned noisily, emphatically rustling his feet in the brush.

"Wait!" The voice cried.

Daryl grunted in weary amusement and turned back around to face the burrow. He watched as two small hands breached the opening and saw a filthy blue and white baseball cap emerge.

"Damn," Daryl gasped in spite of himself. "You're just a kid!"


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry for the delay! BUT at least it's 3x the size of the first chapter! Reviews are super amaze-balls, by the way. ;)_

**Chapter 2**

Daryl found himself staring slack-jawed at the small girl in front of him. Two hazel eyes peered warily back at him and he noticed that she was tense, like she was ready to bolt at the slightest sound or movement. The girl stood firmly in her tracks, however, her left hand clasped her right forearm in front of her tiny body defensively.

The girl was filthy, dirt and blood smeared across her ratty jeans and purple t-shirt, layered over a striped long sleeve shirt. The weather had started cooling, especially at night, so it didn't raise any alarms when Daryl noted that the girl was shivering slightly as she sized him up herself. Daryl's eyes fell on the girl's right arm and he realized then that she was shielding it from his sight. He stared momentarily at the dried blood caking her sleeve that was far too fresh looking to have come from a walker.

"You're bit."

He held back a wince as he realized his voice lacked the inflection of a question and probably sounded a hell of a lot more accusatory than he meant it to.

"No!" The girl protested. She covered her injured arm protectively, turning her body sideways while keeping her suspicious gaze on Daryl.

"What's that, then?" Daryl retorted, pointing at her arm. He subconsciously turned his hunting knife in his hand. It wasn't until the girl's eyes widened fearfully that he realized what he was doing. He quickly wiped the gore off the blade on his pants - it wasn't like he could stink any worse - and slid it into the holder at his hip.

The girl visibly relaxed as Daryl unarmed himself and seemed to straighten her posture defiantly.

"I was bit," she admitted. "But not by a walker."

Daryl's eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to read the girl's face for any indication that she was lying. He waited impatiently for a further explanation.

"If it ain't a walker bite, what is it?" he asked, annoyance edging his voice.

The girl hung her head momentarily. "A dog," she replied sadly.

The scruffy white dog that had brought on the mass of walkers that had ultimately separated him and Beth flashed briefly in Daryl's mind.

"Where is it?" He demanded.

"Dead," the girl replied.

Daryl ran his tongue along the inside of his lip as he mulled it over.

"If yer lyin' to me, I got no problem puttin' a bolt through yer head," Daryl warned. Whether he would actually do it was moot, but she didn't need to know that. He may have difficulty communicating with people, but he could spot a liar from a mile away. He watched for her reaction intently. To his surprise, the girl straightened her shoulders and her eyes narrowed determinedly.

"If it was a walker, I'd end it myself," she said defiantly. "But I think it's infected, and I know that you don't have to get bit to come back."

Daryl nodded, satisfied and a little impressed with the girl's answer. She sure as hell didn't look like much, but she was a scrappy little thing. "Well, let's see if we can find something to clean it up."

He shouldered his crossbow and turned to head back toward the road. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the girl hadn't moved. "You comin' or what?"

"Aren't you going to ask me my name?" she asked.

Daryl shrugged. "Don't really matter, does it?" Even Daryl wasn't sure why he was being such a dick to the kid. Maybe he was tired, or maybe just tired of losing people. He didn't even really know what to do with a kid her age. Of course he had spent time with Carl, but he was never solely responsible for him. Plus, Carl was a tough little bastard and the kid in front of him was just a little girl. She didn't look much older than Sophia...

The girl shrugged and stepped tentatively towards him, tiptoeing around the scattered carcasses around her. She paused and eyed him warily. "You're not going to hurt me, are you?"

Daryl ignored the pang in his chest at the question. Looking at the girl, it was easy to see she had been through hell. But then again, who hadn't in this world?

"Wouldn't have wasted my time savin' yer ass if I was," he replied gruffly.

"You thought I was Beth," the girl pointed out.

Daryl scowled at her. "You always this mouthy?" he demanded.

The girl shrugged. "Sometimes," she replied.

Daryl snorted and turned away from her. She definitely was a feisty little thing and he also guessed that she was a huge pain in the ass. "Listen kid," he said. "You can come with me or you can stay. I don't give a shit which, but if yer with me, you do what I tell ya to. Got me?"

"Yep."

Satisfied with her reply, Daryl began walking back towards the road where he had come from. He heard the crunching of the girl's footsteps as she scurried over to catch up to him. They navigated the woods for a few minutes of blissful silence before the girl piped up.

"Who is Beth?"

Daryl sighed inwardly. "Don't wanna talk about it," he replied, pushing past some small branches with such force that they cracked and flopped pathetically from the damaged fibres that still connected them to the tree.

"Is she your wife?" the girl asked, undeterred.

Daryl felt the heat rise to his cheeks. "Rule number two, don't ask stupid questions," he growled.

"Soooorrrrrry," the girl retorted. Her sarcasm was not lost on Daryl and maybe in different circumstances he would have found it amusing. He was physically and mentally exhausted and now he had someone else to look after. Beth's inexperience in this world was difficult enough to contend with and she was technically an adult at 18. She had taken stupid risks searching for alcohol, although he admittedly let her, and now he was stuck with a kid younger than Carl.

"Can you at least tell me your name so I don't have to think of you as the smelly guy with the crossbow?" The girl asked, haughtily.

Daryl fought back a laugh. Ballsy little shit. "If I tell you, will you shut up?" He snapped back.

"Yes," she replied, she mumbled something afterwards that sounded suspiciously like "for now", but Daryl relented anyway.

"Daryl," he grunted. "Now be quiet so I can figure out where the hell we are."

"I'm Clementine," the girl replied, triumphantly.

Daryl sighed audibly in exasperation. "What I just say?"

"Sorry," Clementine said, fighting back a grin.

* * *

Clementine and Daryl walked down the road for what seemed like ages before they came across a disheveled, modest house. The grass was overgrown and weeds overtook what Clementine imagined was once a pristine front garden. Daryl was grumpy and barely spoke more than two words to her at a time and usually included the words "shut up." Anything more than that was clipped sentences reminding her of the two rules he'd set back in the woods. They moved at a fairly quick pace, as Daryl had mentioned a herd a few miles back and they wouldn't be too far behind them.

Her armed throbbed terribly and the angry red surrounding the wound reminded her of the urgency to find something to properly dress and clean it. It was deep and probably needed stitches. She hoped Daryl knew how to do it and that he would be more gentle than how he acted.

He scared her at first, his eyes narrowed dangerously at her when she had crawled out of the hole she hid in to get away from the walkers. She initially thought he was with the group of men that she and her former guardian Christa ran into. The ones that started the whole mess she was in. If they hadn't come along, she wouldn't have encountered the dog that bit her or get lost in the woods. Worst of all, she had found herself alone. She knew Christa had promised Lee, who became her surrogate father when the world went bad, that she and her husband Omid would take care of her. Now they were all gone.

She wasn't sure what made her trust Daryl. He was brash and not overly friendly, but if her old friend Lee taught her anything, it was that other people were needed to survive this cruel world. Daryl certainly looked like he could handle his own out here and she knew tagging along with him would help her chances at surviving.

"Place is boarded up," Daryl muttered as they made their way up to the weathered covered porch. She followed his gaze and saw the wood secured over the windows on the first floor.

"That's good right? That means it hasn't been looted yet, maybe there is still supplies in there," Clementine mused, gingerly touching her injured arm.

"Ain't worried about what got in," Daryl replied, trying to peer between the small gaps in the boards. The screen door squeaked in protest as he pulled it open and he paused to listen.

"Did you hear anything?" Clementine asked anxiously.

"Yeah," Daryl replied dryly. "An annoying kid who don't know how to keep her mouth shut."

Clementine sighed in response but decided not to test him further. She watched as he tried the knob on the heavy wooden door.

"Locked," Daryl muttered. "Probably boarded up, too."

"We can always go through the second floor," Clementine suggested. She had stepped off the porch and was staring at the unboarded windows above thoughtfully.

Daryl snorted. "Yeah? And how we gonna do that? Sprout wings and fly?" he demanded dismissively.

"You can boost me up on top of the porch and I can climb through the windows," Clementine explained.

Daryl stared at her incredulously. "You got a death wish, kid? Don't know what's behind those walls. Probably a whole family in there waiting to rip you apart," he argued.

"I'm dead anyway if I don't get anything to clean up my arm," Clementine stated matter-of-factly. "And I'm stronger than you think."

Daryl scoffed. "What are ya, eight?"

"Eleven," Clementine corrected. "Almost 12. I think..."

He joined her on the overgrown grass and stared at the porch thoughtfully. "Maybe I can jump up and grab hold of the roof..."

"It's pretty high," Clementine pointed out doubtfully.

Daryl had already placed his crossbow on the grass and was sizing up the porch. He took a couple of steps back and charged forward, leaping into the air. His fingers curled around the eaves trough and the worn aluminum screeched in protest before giving way and sending the hunter falling flat on his back. He groaned as the air was emptied from his lungs until the girl's face appeared above him, peering down at him.

"Told you," she said. She offered her good hand to him and he swatted at it before rolling over onto his hands and knees, wheezing, as oxygen finally made its way back where it belonged.

He glared at her as he climbed to his feet, kicking the buckled aluminum angrily.

"I ain't sending you in there alone," he barked, raking his fingers through his hair.

"I can handle it," Clementine countered determinedly.

"What ya gonna do, talk 'em to death?" Daryl demanded, frustrated. "We're gonna have to keep moving."

Clementine dug into her pocket and produced a small pen knife. She had found it at an abandoned campsite where she had met the dog that had attacked her for the can of beans she was sharing with him.

She saw the disdainful look on Daryl's face as he stared at the small pen knife in her palm.

"I can do this," she said firmly. "My arm is getting worse and the next house could be looted."

Daryl sighed. He didn't like how he was suddenly responsible for the life of a child. Sending her into a house with unknown dangers didn't sit well with him at all. As far as he could tell, they were far removed from any towns, and the houses were spread far apart. This could very well be their only chance. He suddenly felt sympathy for Rick, who had battled almost of a daily basis to protect Carl, who was adamant that he could handle any situation that even the most hardened members of the group struggled with. Even still, he had more confidence that Carl would be able to handle his own in that house than Clementine.

He quickly scanned the yard for a chair or anything to give him a boost up so he could reach the porch's roof and found nothing. The kid sure as hell couldn't boost him up, she looked like she weighed as much as one of his arms.

"Don't bite your nails," Clementine said suddenly.

Daryl snapped out of his internal battle with himself and realized he was chewing on his thumbnail.

"You know how many germs are under your nails?" the girl lectured. "My mom once told me there was fecal matter under there. That's poop."

"I know what fecal matter is," Daryl scowled, but he dropped his hand from his mouth nonetheless. "You ain't goin' in there alone, and that's final. Rule number one: you listen ta me."

"I can remember the rules, I'm not stupid," Clementine said sourly. She was annoyed that he treated her like she was useless. She marched off towards the back of the house angrily.

"Where ya goin'? Daryl called out after her.

"I have to use the bathroom!" She yelled back. "Or is that against the rules?"

If she wasn't so angry, she'd feel guilty for lying but she had a hunch that couldn't be ignored. She rounded around the back of the house and she could have shouted with glee that she was right. At the bottom of the back door, was a doggy door. With luck, it will be accessible. She pushed away thoughts of how Lee would have scolded her for being reckless. She missed him terribly, even if he would disapprove of her next move.

Clementine approached the door tentatively. She toed the opening and the door flapped open. She hoped there weren't walkers waiting for her, but she pulled out the blade from her penknife in preparation. She took a steadying breath and slid through the opening.

She clambered to her feet as quietly as she could, not even daring to take a breath as she surveyed her surroundings. The beams of light peeking through the gaps in the boards provided her with enough light to see that she was in the kitchen. The vinyl flooring was cracked and peeling and Clementine was mindful to lift her feet high enough so the bottom of her shoes wouldn't catch the warped material and alert any walkers that could be lurking about. She slowly crept towards the doorway and peered around the wooden trim into what looked like the living room.

She exhaled a relieved breath as she saw that the room was empty and she tiptoed into it. To her left, she could see the worn wooden railings of the stairs. The main bathroom was likely where the supplies were kept and it was more than likely on the second floor. As she approached the stairway she froze. A dead woman was pawing at the front door clumsily, having likely been alerted by the noise she and Daryl made when they were checking out the front of the house, and when Daryl ripped the eaves trough down.

The walker was nearly wasted away. Its grey, mottled skin hung like sheets on a clothesline from its bones. Its hair was thin and scraggly and barely covered its scalp. A frustrated groan came from the cadaver as it clawed uselessly at the boarded up door.

Clementine thought for a moment about turning back, but she calmed her nerves and crept forward. This was probably her only chance to get something for her arm. She was now directly behind the walker at the bottom of the stairs. Keeping her eyes trained on the threat that was only mere feet away she stepped up on the first wooden stair gingerly.

_Creeeaaak._

The old oak protested her weight and Clementine's breath caught in her throat. She saw the walker freeze and slowly turn around. She was spotted. The walker growled hungrily and bared its slimy, brown teeth. Boney fingers clawed at the air separating it from the fresh meat before it.

Clementine gasped and darted up the stairs, her sneakers pounding on the wood surface with every step. Stealth was no longer her priority. She reached the top and yelped as another walker reached for her as she ran by it. She felt her shirt snag on its fingers but it wasn't able to get a grip. She saw a room to her left and she ran for it. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it as she tried to catch her breath. Mercifully, it seemed to be empty. It appeared to be the master bedroom, judging from the queen sized bed and neutral decor. She winced as she felt the walkers slam into the door behind her with a loud bang.

She slowly stepped away and the door creaked in protest at the weight on the other side pressing on it, but it seemed to hold. She hurried over to the window and saw nothing but a long fall on the other side. The jump wouldn't kill her, but she would probably break a leg, or at the very least, sprain an ankle. She thought about how angry Daryl would be having to carry her around until she healed...or until she died from infection, as her arm throbbed painfully to remind her she still needed to get medical supplies. She quickly looked around for anything she could use to get past the walkers on the other side of the door. She saw a night stand beside the bed and opened the drawer.


	3. Chapter 3: Stuck

_**A/N: Thanks for all the new follows and reviews. Please continue to feed my ego. Special thanks to my lovely Beta SaidWhatIMeant. Go give her story Strip Target Practice some love. It's full of smutty angsty-ness that I am sure God is judging her for. **_

**Chapter Three: Stuck**

Daryl wanted to give the girl her privacy, but was growing impatient. More than enough time had passed to allow for her business to be sorted, though, and he was starting to get concerned. Surely, he would have heard her yell if walkers had crossed paths with her. What if she had run into other people? That thought worried him the most. His experience with people outside of his former group had only proved that the world had gone to shit, with that fucking Governor asshole and whoever took Beth...

Before he could think too hard on that notion, a loud crack sounded and startled him out of his thoughts. She HAD run into others.

"Shit," he muttered. He tore off down the side yard to the back of the house. "KID!" His crossbow slammed painfully into his back with every step. He wasn't even with the girl for a fucking day and already he had fucked up and got her killed. He approached the wooded area behind the house and swung his crossbow off his shoulder and readied it.

_CRACK!_

Daryl skidded to a stop. The sound had come from behind him...

"Goddammit, Clementine," he muttered. He turned on his heels and charged towards the house. He was trying to wrap his head around what was happening. The girl had to be inside the house, but how the hell did she get in there? The windows were boarded up at the back of the house the same way they were at the front. The door too...

That's when Daryl saw it. At the bottom of the back door was a small flapped door. Large enough for a medium sized dog, or an underfed pre-teen girl. Despite his anger and panic, he smirked. "Fuckin' smart-ass."

He studied the dog door carefully. There was no way in hell he'd be able to squeeze in there. He set his crossbow on the stained patio stone and grabbed the knife from his hip. He kicked at the door and it flapped open easily. He swore under his breath and turned away from the door, trying to work out how the hell he was going to get inside.

"Fuck," he breathed. He wiped away the sweat beading his forehead and stared at the small door. Maybe if he angled his body just right, he'd be able to squeeze through. He sure as hell couldn't think of any better ideas. He ducked down and attempted to crawl through the opening. He got as far as his shoulders. He muttered a string of curses and ducked back out, punching the flap angrily.

He tried a second time, going in hands first, as if he were diving into a pool. He curled his shoulders inwards to make himself as small as possible. He managed to get a little further in the door and the sides of the opening dug painfully into his scapulae. He tried to reverse out but he wouldn't budge. He wriggled his torso and forced himself to take deep breaths to avoid panicking. He tried not to think about how vulnerable he was. Wouldn't that be a way for him to go? Being chomped on the ass by a hungry corpse.

Daryl awkwardly tried to bend his elbows to grab a hold of the door to give himself more leverage but that only resulted in his knife slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor.

"Fuck," he muttered. He strained to reach it but from his position, it was impossible. A raspy growl sounded to his left and his eyes followed the sound to find a mangled walker dragging itself slowly from behind the island in the kitchen towards him. It looked like it had died early on in the outbreak and was emaciated to the point it's thin, grey skin looked like a crumpled sheet over its bones. Its starvation likely accounting for its inability to walk.

Daryl gritted his teeth and thrashed wildly in the door frame, his legs kicking wildly as he tried to wrench his body free from the death hole. He wondered briefly if this was the "glory hole's" bastard stepchild. He thought back to a time before all this shit had happened and he was living with his fuck-up brother in a worn-down mobile home. He had just gotten home from a hunt and walked in on his unconscious brother with some skeazy low-budget porn featuring some ugly dudes sticking their dicks in a hole in the wall for some waiting skank to suck playing on the small TV. The asshole was passed out with his dick in his hand and a bag of drugs laying on the couch beside him.

Why did he always think of this fucked-up shit when he was about to die?

The walker was now about halfway from its meal ticket. It's snarls getting louder and more excited as it approached him.

So this was the fucking way Daryl Dixon was going to die. Stuck in a goddamned dog door, chasing some asshole kid who talked too fucking much and couldn't listen worth a damn.

He grunted as he tried to grope for the knife in front of him, bending his arms in any way they could. It would have probably been funny as shit to see, if it wasn't for the dead fucker looking to tear him to ribbons. Though if it did manage, he'd probably be able to fit through the door.

God, this was so fucked up. He was so fucked, he actually started laughing. Hysterical, booming laughter than only excited his approaching demise further.

Tears were rolling down his cheeks he was laughing so goddamned hard.

Daryl thrashed again and heard the leather from his vest tear only slightly, but it was something. The walker reached out towards him and its fingertips grazed his forearm. This was it. What a fucked up way to die, even in this world, with his ass hanging out of a goddamned doggy door. He twisted his arms painfully and managed to grab the walkers rotted arm and pulled it towards him, and pinned it to the floor. It's gnashing teeth was inches from him and he used his other hand to awkwardly push the corpse's head to the floor, temporarily disarming it.

His shoulders screamed in protest and his arms were bent in ways that Daryl was sure wasn't natural, but he wasn't going down without a fight.

He loosened his hold on the walker and tried to slam its head into the vinyl flooring, but due to the awkwardness of his position, its head merely bounced off the floor with a pathetic thunk. It growled as though mocking him. Daryl tried planting his toes firmly on the ground on the other side of the door to push himself through the opening, but his worn boots couldn't find traction.

Through the hungry growls beneath his hand, Daryl thought he heard the creaking of footsteps coming from the second floor. He was too exhausted and sore to dread what he was sure was another walker. It had probably finished with Clementine and had heard its crippled friend he was currently pinning down and was coming downstairs for seconds.

"Daryl?"

The high pitched voice sounded first, followed by the rapid pitter-patter of tiny footsteps running towards him. He craned his head upwards and saw Clementine approaching him, carrying a small black duffel bag. She came to a stop a few feet in front of him and gaped open-mouthed at him, unable to push any words past her lips.

"Ya gonna stand there or are you gonna fucking help me?" Daryl growled through clenched teeth. Every muscle and tendon in his arms were now screaming their protest, starting to shake in his effort to keep the walker's teeth and nails away from his skin.

The duffel bag thumped to the floor and the girl retrieved a small pistol from the waistband of her jeans. She knelt down and placed the barrel of the gun directly against the walker's head. After checking to make sure Daryl wouldn't accidentally get hit with the bullet as it exited the walker, and Daryl's not-so-polite urging to "jes' shoot the fucker already!" she pulled the trigger.

_Click._

"Shoot," Clementine muttered, staring at the empty gun in her hand.

"The knife," Daryl grunted.

"Oh, right." Clementine began to fish around her pockets for the small pen knife she carried.

"My knife, by yer feet," Daryl corrected.

Clementine glanced down and saw the large hunting knife laying on the ground and grabbed it.

"Watch your hands," the girl warned him, raising the knife up and over her head.

"Watch **_your_** hands," Daryl retorted, suddenly feeling a little nervous. One slip, and he may as well have let the walker bite him.

"I don't want to miss and stab you," Clementine said, the knife lowering slightly.

"Then fucking don't," Daryl snapped. His whole body was shaking with the effort of pinning down the cadaver.

"You don't have to swear," the girl muttered. She inhaled a steadying breath and raised the knife again.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Daryl yelled, startling Clementine so that she nearly dropped the knife. "On the count of three...I'mma move my hands and you stab it in the head."

Clementine nodded in acknowledgement.

"One...two -" Daryl began.

"So is it one, two, three and then stab? Or one, two, stab?" Clementine interrupted.

"I don't fucking know! The first one!" Daryl snapped, angrily. The walker rasped and writhed beneath his hands, almost as if it was growing impatient with the whole thing as well. If Daryl's strength wasn't spent in the effort to keep the walker pinned and the unnatural way his arms were bent, he would have just grabbed the knife and done it himself.

"OKAY!" Clementine retorted. She decided against pointing out that he swore again. He was grumpy even when his life wasn't in immediate danger. He wasn't like Lee at all, that was for sure. Lee had treated her nicely, and protected her. Daryl... well...

"ONE! TWO! THREE!" Daryl barked, pulling Clem away from her thoughts.

She drove the blade downwards with all her strength as Daryl moved his hands. She could feel the blade puncture rotted skin and penetrate the walker's skull. It kind of felt like carving a pumpkin, but harder. The rasping stopped as the walker slumped lifelessly to the ground. She leaned back and sat down on the floor and tried to calm her racing heart. She had done it.

Daryl exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed his body slightly. His shoulders were aching and he still didn't know how the hell he was going to get out of the dog door. If he wasn't so goddamn angry at Clementine for blatantly ignoring his orders and getting him in this ridiculous predicament in the first place, he would have been relieved to see that she was okay. He lifted his head and glared at the girl, who shrunk away from his stare.

"Are you mad?" Clementine asked meekly. "I know you didn't want me to go in here but I found a whole bunch of medical supplies for my arm and -"

"Just...shut up and help me out of here," Daryl mumbled in resignation. Humiliation was starting to set in now that the threat was gone. Having to ask a goddamned child for help was Daryl's rock-bottom in his opinion. While over the course of the apocalypse he had reluctantly learned that he needed people to survive, he never thought he'd have to ask a scrawny little girl for help.

"Were you crying?" Clementine asked.

Daryl's head snapped upwards, wrenching his neck painfully. "What?" He demanded.

"You're cheeks are wet and your eyes are red. It looks like you were crying," Clementine explained.

"I don't fucking cry," Daryl snapped.

"It looks like you were," Clementine shrugged.

"Wasn't crying," Daryl shot back harshly. "I was laughing." He didn't know why he felt compelled to explain this to her, but there was no fucking way he was going to allow a little girl to think he was crying.

"Okay," the girl conceded, not looking entirely convinced. "How are you going to get out? You look pretty stuck..."

"I _am_ pretty fucking stuck," Daryl barked. "If you would have fucking listened to me, I wouldn't be fucking stuck."

"I can take care of myself," Clementine insisted, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"Yeah? Well, once I get out of here, you _can_," Daryl growled. "I'm done."

The girl's eyes narrowed. "Fine," she replied.

"Fine," Daryl repeated.

Clementine studied the man in the dog door, trying to figure out how she would get him out of there. The truth was, she didn't want to go out there alone, but he seemed to have made up his mind.

She reached forward and grabbed the leather vest he was wearing. It was pulled tightly around his shoulders and she figured if she could pull it through the door it would buy Daryl enough space that he could squeeze through.

She gritted her teeth and pulled, but her fingers slipped off the leather and she tumbled backwards.

"Ew," she groaned, staring at the thick, sticky black blood on her hands. "Walker goo." She glanced down at the corpse and wiped her hands on it's tattered t-shirt.

"I think your vest is caught," Clementine suggested. "I can use my knife and cut the top. Maybe that will work..."

Daryl sighed. He fucking loved that vest. He had started wearing it after Merle was lost in Atlanta. It was his only relic of his brother, and while Merle would be the first one to call him a pussy or a fag for wanting to keep something of his for sentimental value, he had grown accustomed to wearing it.

"Just do it then," he said. "Before those fucking dead bastards come up from the woods and bite my ass."

Clementine nodded and her hand hovered over Daryl's hunting knife still impaling the dead walker's head, before thinking twice and grabbing the small pen knife instead. She pulled out the blade and began to work at the leather. She cut along the the seams, taking care to not cut Daryl, even if he did deserve it. She went to the other side and sliced through the stitching.

Daryl's body moved forward just slightly.

Clementine folded the knife back up and rose to her feet. She grabbed hold of Daryl's right wrist. "Push with your feet and I'll pull, okay?" She said.

Daryl snorted. "Ain't stupid," he muttered.

"You're stuck in a doggy door," she reminded him, tartly.

"Shut up," he growled. _'Fuckin' smartass...' _

Daryl dug his toes into the ground and the girl pulled, grunting with the effort. He could feel the sides of the dog door biting into his rib cage and he wriggled to try and get himself moving forward.

Slowly, but surely, the upper half of his torso slid through the opening and he took his arm back from Clementine to slide his bottom half through the door. He crawled over the walker and sat down on the vinyl flooring, breathing heavily and rubbing his bruised sides.

Clementine stood near him, gingerly rubbing her arm. The effort to pull Daryl through the dog door made it more painful than ever. After she had shot the two walkers upstairs, she raided the bathroom and found medical supplies. She had poured hydrogen peroxide over the wound and dabbed a bit of Polysporin and wrapped it with some gauze and bandages.

She had scrounged through the house and found a duffel bag and loaded it with the useful first aid products she had found, as well as a some sewing stuff, for her stitches and couple of sweaters for her and Daryl. She purposely chose the most awful wool sweater with a multi-coloured arygyle pattern for Daryl she could find. She figured if he wanted to act like a jerk, he could look like one. She frowned when she remembered, that they had pretty much decided to part ways and she thought about what she could do. She _could_ stay at the house, after dragging the bodies out. She would be able to crawl in and out of the dog door and be relatively safe from anything on the outside.

Clementine mulled it over as she watched as Daryl climbed to his feet and collected his hunting knife, wiping away the gore on the side of his pants before sticking it back into its sheath.

Daryl studied the woodwork across the door and pulled at one of the two by fours. It creaked in protest, and he was relieved to see that it was nailed in and not fastened with screws. With some effort, he should be able to jostle the boards free so he could get the fuck out of the stuffy, vile-smelling house. He wrenched one board free and tossed it aside before starting on the next, swearing under his breath at the exertion.

Clementine had decided to scrounge through the kitchen and found a bottle of water and a couple of cans of chick peas and corn and stuffed them in her bag. She paused for a moment and took out the water and uncapped it, taking a long drink before setting it on the counter along with two of the cans of food she had found.

"There's some food and water on the counter," she said to the hunter's back as he pried off the second last board.

Daryl tossed the wood into the pile with a clatter, barely looking over his shoulder at her. "What?"

"Don't forget it when you leave," Clementine continued. "You are leaving, right?"

Daryl heaved at the last board, the highest one up the door frame. "Ain't you?" He asked with a grunt as the board broke free with a crack. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and walked over to the counter and grabbed the water bottle. He took a swig and studied the girl before capping it again and tossing it to her.

To his surprise, she caught it easily. "I thought you were mad at me," she said uncertainly.

"Am fuc- I am mad," Daryl said. "Ain't gonna leave to to the walkers by yourself though."

Clementine smiled slightly at his correction and nodded as she stuffed the half empty water bottle into her duffel bag. "Do you still have your stupid rules?" She asked as she went to claim the canned goods.

"Kid, you ain't seen nothin' yet," Daryl retorted.


	4. Chapter 4: Sweaters and campfires

Clementine shivered and hugged her knees. She scooted closer to the dying embers of the small fire Daryl had built in a small clearing in the woods. He had wanted to put as much space between them and the house. They had walked endlessly until he finally took pity on his young travel companion and called it a night.

He hadn't said much to her since the dog door incident and Clem supposed he was still angry with her. She wasn't sure if she preferred "loud angry Daryl" or "silently seething, angry Daryl". She chanced a glance in his direction.

The hunter was leaning against a tree, absently dragging the blade of his knife through the soil, only looking up when the wind would disturb the perimeter he had set up around their camp. The clanging of the hub cabs and cans were unnerving and it set them both on edge. The sun had nearly set and the visibility was poor, causing rustling branches to cast menacing looking shadows in the dying light of the fire.

Clem jumped when a particularly strong breeze ripped through the trees, setting off their makeshift alarm system.

"The wind is kind of freaky, huh?" Clem said.

Daryl's eyes looked through her as he scanned the surrounding brush. He barely grunted in acknowledgement, too distracted by potential threats to properly address the young girl.

After he was satisfied that nothing nefarious was lurking beyond the perimeter, he resumed his mindless digging in the soil.

"We should find somewhere a little more safe to stay at," Clementine mused. "Unless you have somewhere to go?"

Daryl jabbed the knife into the soil and snorted. "Ain't got nowhere to go."

Clem should have known from the tone of his voice that she should stop talking, but she couldn't stop the next question from flying out of her mouth.

"What about Beth?"

Daryl froze, his gaze finally leaving the soil and meeting hers. Clementine found herself withering slightly under his glare.

"Aren't you looking for her?" she offered feebly.

"She's gone, and it ain't your goddamn business," Daryl growled, his fist clenching around the hilt of his knife.

"Then why were you yelling for her?" Clem asked.

"Goddammit kid, rule number two," Daryl snapped.

"I lost people, too," Clem continued, her tone somber. "I...had to shoot someone. He took care of me when the world turned bad."

Daryl's attention was no longer on his blade or the ground. He saw the small girl wipe her eyes with the back of her fists and averted his eyes to the trees around him. He didn't know how to placate tears. He found himself wishing Beth were here. Or maybe Carol or Maggie. They knew how to process grief. Daryl just pushed it down, burying it as deep within himself as he could. Only twice had he let himself cry...once at the cabin in the woods and when he had found Merle.

"Had ta kill my big brother," Daryl said. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to offer that information. Jesus, he sucked at consoling people. Kid tells him some fucked up shit and he responds with his own fucked up history.

"I'm sorry," Clementine said. "Lee found me when I was hiding in my treehouse. My parents were in Savannah when the walkers came and my babysitter got bit. He tried to take me to them, even though I think he knew they were already dead."

"Sounds like he was a good guy," Daryl offered. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. In these situations in a world of so much loss, he found acknowledgement of a person's character made him sound like less of a dick than remaining silent.

Clem nodded and hugged her knees. "He was," she affirmed. "Was your brother?"

Daryl peered at the girl, growing suddenly uncomfortable. He loved his brother, sure, but Merle a good man?

He didn't want to answer the question, but the words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Merle was Merle," he shrugged. "Ain't the nicest guy you coulda met, but he'd do anything for his family."

"Sounds like he was a pretty good guy, too," Clem told him.

Daryl snorted. Being a good guy was something Merle was never accused of.

"How's yer arm?" Daryl asked, eager to change the subject.

"Hurts," Clem admitted. "I found some peroxide and polysporin at the house, but it needs stitches. I have thread and a needle too, but..."

Daryl saw the hopeful glance in his direction and his stomach churned. Stitching her arm is going to hurt like hell, and while he wouldn't think twice about doing it to himself, he wasn't sure if he could stomach the little girl screaming in his ear while he fixed her up.

He noticed the girl rubbing her arms, trying to warm herself against the chill of the night air. He tried to ignore the goosebumps that prickled his arms.

"Cold?" he asked her.

Clementine shrugged. "A little."

"Can get the fire goin' a little bit more, but that's it," Daryl offered. "Can't risk bein' seen." He threw a small piece of wood he found from a rotting tree onto the glowing embers and a handful of kindling to get the flames going again.

Clem gave him gave a grateful look. "Oh! I almost forgot!" she exclaimed, reaching for her small black duffle bag. She unzipped it and pulled out the sweaters she had scavenged from the house. She looked at the large wooly one with the ridiculous pink and baby blue argyle pattern guiltily. Daryl was still kind of a jerk, but he was at least talking to her now, instead of grunting and muttering reminders of the rules under his breath.

She pulled the smaller sweater over her head and sheepishly offered the ugly sweater to Daryl.

After a moment's hesitation Daryl accepted the offering. He unbundled the fabric and after taking a look at it he promptly dropped it to the ground.

"Aw, hell no," he muttered, kicking at the offensive fabric disdainfully.

Clementine stifled a giggle at the disgusted grimace on Daryl's face. The man beside her seemed unable to pull his eyes away from the offensive pile of wool at his feet, his upper lip curled in distaste.

"Ain't no fucking way I'm wearing that," Daryl growled.

"Swear!" Clem admonished. She ignored the glare he shot in her direction. "It's not that bad, you big baby."

"Ugliest damn sweater I ever seen," Daryl muttered. He stared at the light pink and blue diamond pattern at his feet in disgust.

"Bet it's wa-arm," Clem tempted him. Her small voice trilled in a sing-song voice.

"Ain't that cold," Daryl muttered. He scowled when his shivering betrayed him, causing the girl to quirk an eyebrow at him.

"Who's going to know? It's just you and me out here," Clementine pointed out.

"_I'd_ know," Daryl retorted. "Ain't wearin' pink."

Clementine shrugged. "I think you're being stupid," she said, unscrewing the cap of the peroxide. She hissed a bit as she peeled back the bandage on the festering wound on her arm. The area looked a little less red, as far as she could tell in the poor lighting and she took it as a good sign.

Daryl snorted. "Don't care what you think," he muttered. He mentally cursed himself for getting suckered into yet another argument with the child.

Clementine poured a bit if the peroxide onto her bite, squeaking in pain as the liquid fizzed and bubbled into her wounded flesh. Tears tracked their way down her cheeks and she bit her lip to stop her from crying out again.

"C'mere."

Clem looked up from her arm questioningly.

"If you wanna fix it up then suit yerself," Daryl shrugged, twirling the blade of his hunting knife in the dirt. "Stitching yourself up takes some balls."

After some hesitation, Clem scooted closer, dragging her pack with her. She held out her arm.

"Wait," she said, pulling away from the man's reach. "Your hands are filthy."

Daryl rolled his eyes and smirked at the girl's horror as he spit a glob of saliva in the palm of his hand and wiped it off on the leg of his pants.

"Ew!" Clementine cried, recoiling.

Daryl suppressed what sounded like the start of a chuckle and grabbed the bottle of peroxide, unscrewing the cap and pouring it over his contaminated hand.

"Better, princess?" He asked, shaking the excess liquid from his hand.

"I thought you were being serious," Clem replied. Her relief was palpable and she stuck her arm out toward the man again.

"What? Think I was raised in a barn like some animal?" Daryl asked.

"No," Clem responded, adding under her breath, "animals have better manners…"

Daryl couldn't suppress the chuckle that escaped him and tried to mask it by coughing. The kid had balls, and even though she had been nothing except a pain in his ass from the start, he was beginning to appreciate her company.

"Fuckin' smartass," he muttered. "Yeah, yeah. Swear!"

Clementine beamed at him. She hissed in pain as Daryl began prodding at her injured arm, causing his grip to tighten on her wrist.

"Keep still," Daryl ordered.

"It hurts."

"Ain't looking too good, kid," Daryl mused, pressing at the flesh surrounding the broken skin. "Might have to amputate…"

Clementine's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head. "WHAT?" She shrieked.

"Can't risk the infection getting any worse," Daryl continued. He grabbed his large hunting knife with his free hand and rolled the handle in his palm.

"No, no, no, no!" Clem cried, her heart pounding in her chest. She tried to pull her arm away but the man's grip tightened.

"Please," she gasped, her breathing becoming more shallow and panicked. Tears began to blur her vision and she felt Daryl release her arm.

She scrambled backwards and as she regained her bearings, she realized he was laughing at her. She had barely seen Daryl even hint at a smile and there he was, laughing like someone had told him the world's funniest joke.

Before she realized it, her bottom lip trembled and she began to cry. Loudly. Her sobs echoed through the trees and abruptly ended the chortles from the man beside her.

"Shit, kid," Daryl said. "Was only joking…" He fidgeted nervously and looked at the ground as the girl's sobs continued.

"C'mon," he tried again, fruitlessly. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, desperately trying to come up with a solution to placate the girl.

Then he saw it. Lying in a hideous pink and blue heap at his feet. The fucking sweater. He reached down and plucked it off the ground with the tips of his fingers, sneering at the cursed garment. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled it over his head.

It was as itchy as it was ugly, and it didn't fit him. The man it belonged to was much slighter than him, especially around the shoulders. He tugged downwards at the bottom hem, but it would barely surpass his midsection. The sleeves hovered mid forearm.

Despite her tears, Daryl's actions didn't go unnoticed by Clementine and slowly but surely, her cries subsided.

"You're _hic_ wear-_hic_-ing it," she choked our, sniffling.

Daryl shrugged, scratching restlessly at the itchy fabric. "Was cold," he responded.

Clementine saw the misery on his face and how stupid he looked in a too small, argyle knit sweater and couldn't contain herself. She began giggling through her tears and soon she was laughing, crying and hiccuping at the same time.

"You look like my principal!" Clem exclaimed between giggles. "Except dirtier."

"Laugh it up, kid," Daryl, retorted, tugging hopelessly at the godforsaken garment. He scowled, though he was relieved that the crying had subsided. To his horror, the girl clambered to her feet and advanced toward him.

He flinched involuntarily as her hands reached for his hair.

"His hair was brushed to the side," Clem said, as she combed and smoothed his shaggy mop into a combover.

"Knock it off," Daryl growled, ducking away from her hands.

Clem shrieked as he swatted at her hands. She stepped back to admire her handy work and clapped her hand over her mouth, muffling her laughter.

"Laugh it up," Daryl muttered. "You little sh-"

"Swear!" Clem interrupted.

"You're pushin' it, kid," Daryl warned, running his hand through his mop of hair. "Now let's get that arm fixed up."


End file.
